


Fedora Fridays

by uppercas



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Middle School, Background Relationships, Crushes, Friends to Lovers, Jazz - Freeform, Jazz Band AU, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original au, Pining, and a very dumb au at that, craig wears fuckin fedoras, creek jazz band au, dumb, jazz au? jazz au, tweek is short in this au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-02-08 15:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12867642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uppercas/pseuds/uppercas
Summary: By the laws of his clique, Craig Tucker was untouchable.He was a drummer; cold, calculated precision in his personality could be traced in the strike of a hi hat. The South Park Middle School jazz band was the place to be when you were at the top of the ranks— as far as band geeks went, anyway.But when a twitchy blonde stormed through their band room door begging for a second try at jazz band auditions, something in him ignited.And suddenly, he was no longer the mystery.





	1. Lil' Darlin'

Calloused fingers found their way around splintering wood, and Craig Tucker moved to set the jive.

He was by no means a prodigy, but he  _ was _ pretty damn good for an eighth grader. As a drummer, the rest of the junior jazz ensemble was like putty in his hand. He loved every second of it; at any moment, he could give in, and the sound would crumble at his will like a sandcastle reduced to nothing by the ocean waves.

At this point, every hit was ingrained in his procedural memory, yet every strike remained just as crisp and calculated. His focus never wandered, never faltered. He just let his hands do the work as he methodically watched the sticks bounce across a drumhead or two. It was, in a sense, a cycle.

… A cycle that would soon be broken by an unfamiliar blonde bursting in from the rain.

“Give me a second chance,” the boy pleaded between breaths, running his unoccupied fingers through a mess of unruly hair. His eyes, Craig noted unconsciously, were a piercing green.

The conductor’s face twisted into that of slightly condescending pity. “I’m sorry, Tweek,” he offered, “but auditions are already over. Try again in high school.”

The boy in question—  _ Tweek _ — began to shake violently, staring down at his palms. He jerked his head to the side and took a moment before letting out a shrill yell. “What do you mean, I can’t audition?! I ran through the fucking pouring rain to get here!”

“ _ Language,  _ young man. I do not have all of zero period to listen to your protests. As you can see here, I have a full class to teach, so you can run along to your first class. We can discuss this later.”

In an instant, Craig’s lanky body scrambled up from his seat. “Mr. Ackman, sir, this isn’t a full ensemble.” His voice kept cracking, and was more nasal than usual.  _ Real cool, Craig,  _ he thought to himself.

The gaze of the entire class burned into his retinas. His teacher, having gone to write a scale on the whiteboard, froze. “What do you mean, Mr. Tucker?”

No backing down now. “You said at the beginning of the year that we need a baritone sax player, and none of the other people currently on saxes ever decided to switch. Why can’t he do it?” He turned to Tweek. “That’s an alto case, right?”

“Tenor,” Tweek stammered, now in the spotlight.

“The point is,” continued the drummer, “according to your direct words we are, in fact, in need of one more musician to be a ‘full ensemble’. So let him play the damn bari.” He offered a casual thumbs-up to the new kid, who reluctantly returned it alongside a weak smile.

Mr. Ackman rested his face in his hands. “Fine. Tweek, you have the rest of the week to prove that you are capable as a member of South Park Middle’s jazz ensemble.”

A quiet “thank you” passed between the boys as Tweek made his way to the sidelines to spectate. He felt Tweek’s stare as they played through Charlie Parker’s “My Little Suede Shoes,” but paid it no mind.

At the end of class, with his hands tucked secretively in the pocket of his sweatshirt, Craig flipped off the band teacher. He had won once again.

 

~

They met again when Craig nearly crashed into him as he turned the corner outside their school cafeteria. Craig’s wrinkly apple tumbled to the pavement and was consequently stepped on by Tweek, the latter of whom having responded to the shock by jumping about five feet in the air. 

“Sweet Jesus! You can’t just scare me like that, man!”

Craig looked him up and down. The guy was about a foot shorter than him— if not more— but the dynamics behind his voice more than compensated for the lack in stature. In a way, he reminded Craig of one of those scruffy rat dogs, barking excessively in a desperate attempt to hide the fact that he had no real defense to him.

“You’re Tweek, right?”

“Yeah… oh shit, I totally squashed your food. Crap. Crap! I’m sorry.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “It’s whatever. I wasn’t going to eat anyway.” He leaned forward and squinted, as if trying to get a closer look inside the kid’s brain. “Is ‘Tweek’ your  _ real _ name?”

His new classmate gave a frustrated groan. “ _ Yes,  _ Tweek Tweak is my real name.” Upon seeing Craig’s eyes widen, he rushed to defend himself. “I’m sure yours isn’t any better!”

“Craig Tucker.  Enchanté.”

“That nasally voice of yours does wonders for your French, Craig Tucker,” Tweek noted. Nerves tinged the edges of his voice, but he still put on a shiteating smirk.

“That shrieking of yours does wonders for your nervous demeanor, Tweek Tweak. God, what kind of parents name their kid that?”

Tweek giggled tensely. “Mine, dude. And I can’t help it — the anxiety, I mean. There’s all these doctors I work with and they know nothing about me so they just use me as a guinea pig for meds.”

“I know how that is,” Craig sighed, prior to freezing up again. He pulled the sides of his chullo tight against his head to protect against the cold, and folded his arms nonchalantly. “I take it you transferred here this semester. I’ve been here since sixth grade and I’ve never seen you before today.” Craig turned melodramatically in an effort to gain mysterious aura, but he would later reflect that it just made him look like an idiot. “That being said,” he continued, “you don’t seem like too much of a dick. So if you need somewhere to sit at lunch, you’re welcome to eat with my dumbass friends and me under the apple tree.”

Tweek’s lips curled slightly upward, but he glanced away. “I don’t know, man. I’m already under a lot of pressure with this whole jazz band initiation thing. I think I’ll just practice in the band room during our lunches… if that’s alright with you.”

Craig was surprised. For someone so visibly anxious, the boy had guts, and was notably more dedicated than any of the other douches he was in band with. It was kind of… cool. “No hard feelings. I hope you kick ass on the bari.”

Tweek groaned. “God, me too.”

The taller of the two plastered on the most genuine smile of comfort he could muster and placed a friendly hand on his new classmate’s back. “I’ll see you around, Tweek.”

“Hold on.”

Craig stopped in his tracks. “What’s up?”

“Why exactly did you help me this morning?” Tweek hesitated, but eventually continued elaborating. "You… you don’t even know me. You could have just played on, waited for me to leave. Why did you reach out?”

“You said you ran through the rain to get there,” Craig droned. “Of course you deserved another chance.”

Tweek rapidly shook his head. “No, no no. I mean, the other jazz students were telling me how lucky I am that  _ you _ of all people, decided to jump in and help. They say that you’re usually kind of… cold?”

“I embrace it.”

“Then why, Craig? Can you be honest with me?”

Craig shrugged. “I guess I kind of felt for your situation. Music for me is an escape. In my case, shit just sort of happens to me and I feel like I have no grasp on the situation. But when I’m at the drums I feel like… like I  _ finally  _ have some sense of control, you know? I’d never want someone to be deprived of that kind of release. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I don’t know about you or your situation, but the look on your face when you walked through that door—  that was the look of someone who needs music.”

Tweek stopped shaking, if only for a moment, and looked up as though he’d had some sort of an epiphany. “Thank you, Craig.”

The sound of a bell signifying the end of lunch blared through the halls. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Definitely.”


	2. Serenity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tweek has his first big solo. What could possibly go wrong?

In its full setup, the saxophone stood just a little over one inch beneath Tweek’s chin. Kenny McCormick, resident pianist, was awfully persistent in pointing this out, albeit somewhat muffled by the hood of his signature orange parka: “Holy hell, that thing’s taller than you are!”

Cartman stepped up from behind and swung an arm around the neck of the instrument. He cleared his throat. “So, Tweek, are you taking her to prom or what?” he asked sarcastically, patting the smooth metal.

Tweek blinked. “What?”

Kyle Broflovski intervened, casually shoving Eric into the nearby instrument lockers. “Shut up, fatass,” he shouted, prior to directing conversation at the saxophonist. “Listen, Tweek. I think that what you’re doing is pretty cool. Taking on a new instrument like that just to get a chance in the band? In my book, that deserves some serious respect.”

“Thank you—”

The two were interrupted by a high blast originating from the demented source of Cartman’s fabled trombone, so amplified by the otherwise quiet room that the locks shook rapidly against their cages. While Tweek shrieked, Kyle grumbled in a quiet, boiling rage. “What the hell was that for?” yelled the flute player.

Eric smirked. “Did you like it,  _ Kyle? _ I wrote that song just for you. It’s called ‘Stop Being a Gaylord & Help Me Set Up the Chairs.’”

“Ugh. _ Fine _ .”

As Kyle stormed off, Craig Tucker determined from the ‘audience’ that he had grown tired of the banter, and took his step onto the figurative stage. 

“Are you ready for today?” he asked, arms folded behind his back.

Tweek instantly tensed, but his shoulders relaxed when he realized it was just the drummer. “Erm, I practiced on my tenor last night ‘cause I couldn’t take the baritone home without a permission slip. I don’t really know how that’s gonna transfer.”

“Did you study the songs? I overheard Ackman say we’re practicing ‘Ornithology’ today. Gotta love the bebop unit.”

“Ah, actually, he didn’t exactly  _ give  _ me the sheet music until I walked into class this morning.” When Craig’s mouth gaped, he quickly elaborated: “But that’s okay! I was known for being the best sight reader at my old school.”

And with the way Tweek played, it seemed to Craig as though he was telling the truth. As the class worked through the first page, Tweek matched the quick, swinging melody to perfection, occasionally altering between the baseline and back to lead again. His fingers worked fast in the higher range, and the drummer found himself so utterly mesmerized that he allowed himself to give into distraction— if only for a moment.

Big mistake. When he reconvened with the music, he was an entire three beats off, hitting the ride sporadically. His tom fill was a complete mess, and instantly the conductor took notice.

“Alright everyone, let’s take five for a moment.”

The cocky nerd he was, Stan Marsh instantly began the vamp to Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” on his shiny new guitar.

Ackman rolled his eyes. “Very funny, Stan. Now, Craig, what was that? I don’t think I’ve ever seen  _ you _ get that off before.”

“Sorry, sir. I’m pretty sleep deprived today,” he explained, lying through his teeth.

“It’s no problem. Just try and stay awake for this lesson.” He turned to the rest of the class. “Okay, everyone, let’s go ahead and take it four bars before the solo. Tweek, can you take the improv?”

“Wah!”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Craig started them out with a more controlled fill, and then the horn sections were stabbing away at the air with their alternating riffs. Tweek was already leaning on his toes, ready to take a stand.

And with the crash of a cymbal, it was on. The saxophonist rose, arms flexing beneath the weight of his instrument. He did a quick run of the broken-down chords for every shift, consistently following notes found in the required scale. His embouchure shook around the polished mouthpiece. 

His composure quickly came undone. As his knees trembled violently, the sounds coming from the horn became increasingly erratic. He moved the scale an entire half-step up, deviating from the tempo at random. In the end, shaky breaths were all that came from the bell.

It was over. He collapsed in his chair, huffing and puffing. The song went on without him.

After class, Craig reached out just as Tweek rushed to disassemble the source of his humiliation.

“You okay?”

“I guess,” the former soloist stammered.

“What happened back there?”

Tweek yanked at a section of his hair. “Ugh! I don’t even know! I started thinking about how people were looking at me and I just… freaked out.”

Craig cautiously took the neck of the sax from Tweek’s aggressive grip, letting it glint under the white light from above as he placed it in its velvet-lined casing. “In the long run, that won’t seem nearly as bad,” he mused. “You were pretty damn good before he singled you out.”

“Jesus, no, I was awful! Were you listening? This thing sounds like a goose when I’m at it!”

How was he supposed to reply to that, tell him the truth? No  _ way _ . He was not about to out himself as somebody who actually  _ cares _ about his friends in front of thirty impressionable dumb teenagers. “At least you were better than Cartman,” he settled.

“You think so?”

“Well, yeah. When he plays that thing it’s like a dying whale is being squeezed out of his windpipe.”

Tweek suddenly broke into a wide, toothy grin entirely unlike the smiles they had exchanged prior. He laughed almost maniacally, his cheeks glowing and his eyes going comically wide as he uncharacteristically snorted.

Craig smirked privately, rolling his eyes. “Come on, dude. It wasn’t that funny.”

“I know, I know,” assured his classmate, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. “But it managed to cheer me up a little. You’re a good guy, Craig.”

If anyone else had said that, Craig had one of two options: A, flip them off; or B, casually dismiss them. But with Tweek, he instinctively took the comment in stride.

“You too.”

~

Following the bell over the P.A. system signifying the beginning of lunch, students aggressively pushed past one another in the halls. Any free time at South Park Middle School was simultaneously a blessing and a curse; the children functioned as the wild creatures of a jungle, with Craig as the clueless observer. He made his way toward the apple tree in the field, where he was greeted by Token. He told himself he wouldn’t be there long.

In the distance, Clyde Donovan lay on a blanket of grass, lazily gnawing on an apple. To his left, Jimmy Valmer was leaning against the trunk of the tree, his crutches digging into the soft earth.

Token kicked lightly at Clyde’s side. “Clyde, get that thing out of your mouth or I swear I will prove the brown note’s existence on my bass.”

“It’s  _ my  _ apple.”

“I watched you pick it up off of the ground, Clyde. Who knows how long it’s been there?”

“It could have pesticides,” Jimmy added, tripping up slightly on the final word.

“Or  _ worms, _ ” Craig emphasized.

Clyde went sheet white. “Oh, fine. I guess I’ll buy lunch like the rest of you normies. You all suck.”

They all watched as he stormed off sluggishly, snickering amongst themselves.

“It’s not a party when he’s not around,” Token mumbled.

Craig’s expression softened. “Actually, guys, I should get going, too,” he admitted. “I have some business to take care of in the band room, if anyone comes looking for me.”

Before Token could ask why, Jimmy called after him. “If you stop by and Mr. Ackman is there, would you please ask him when my vocal sheets are ready? I need to practice my Sinatra impression.”

Craig nodded. “No problem.”

Outside the band room, Craig zipped his jacket to be firm against his body. The door was positioned right in the part of campus that received no sunlight no matter the time of day; and in the winter, that meant that it was freeze-your-balls-off cold. He went grabbing for the handle, but paused when he heard voices.

“I know that you’re under a lot of pressure, Tweek.” Deep, expressive, with the slight tinge of a southern drawl— that voice could only belong to Mr. Ackman. “But it’s middle school, Tweek. You’re not a professional. You don’t need to lose yourself in the mistakes of one solo.”

“You don’t understand, Mr. Ackman. This is really important to me.  _ Please. _ I won’t feel like a true member of the ensemble unless I can really perfect my playing.

Then you’re going to have to let yourself forget about what everyone else thinks. Start with me. I have a piece that I think would be perfect for you. Just one run-through, and then I need you to cut yourself some slack.”

Craig had known that Mr. Ackman was forgiving. He supposed, however, that this was amplified in Tweek’s case due to how desperately their band needed a complete sax section. In a sense, it was logical. 

Their conversation was followed with a momentary silence. Through the crack of the door, he could even make out the turn of a page.

“ _ In a Sentimental Mood?  _ You want me to do a Coltrane song? On a bari? Oh man, I don’t really think I can do this. Not now!”

“Deep breaths, Tweek. I’m starting the backing track… now.”

The swell of the music transferred Craig to another plane of existence, a return to the nostalgic memory of when he first heard this song playing in his grandmother’s kitchen. It was different on the baritone saxophone, but certainly not worse: Tweek performed the runs and dynamic variation with such fervor that Craig could permit himself to believe that it was just an extension of him. Peering through the window, he observed as Tweek’s pale, slim fingers traced over the keys, gently caressing every aspect of the melody. In juxtaposition of the small boy versus the powerful, towering instrument, it was as though the former had domesticated a beast, now purring and obedient under his control. He took the tune slow and steady. Craig’s heart rose the same manner as it did when stargazing. He found himself embarrassed, despite being entirely unsure as to why.

He went to his next class early. Better than than being caught doing what others would assume was awkwardly stalking the new student.

~

After school, he lugged his ass over to the practice area once more. It was his turn to put away the drum kit. In doing so, he nearly tripped over Tweek, whose focus was entirely centered on maneuvering his oversized case out of its designated locker.

“Jesus, Tweek, clear a path!”

Tweek apologized profusely from his spot on the floor. “I’m just having a little trouble getting old Jessabelle out.”

“Jessabelle,” Craig deadpanned. “You named your sax?”

“Well, yeah. I think that now that I am officially borrowing her from the school, she deserves to have a name.” He finally managed to wriggle the case free. It fell on the ugly green carpet with an impactful  _ thunk. _ “Oh, God. I can’t wait to do that again for the rest of the year.”

“You’re in my way,” Craig stated matter-of-factly.

“Sorry, I’ll move once I can actually lift the thing.”

Without a word, Craig moved to stand opposite his bandmate. “You take hold of one handle, and I’ll grab the other. We lift when I say go.”

And without hesitation, they were off, lifting the case with ease until she was safe in the doorway. The saxophonist collapsed onto the floor. “You got it from here?” asked Craig.

Tweek sulked. “In all honesty, not really. I’m kind of a wimp.”

Craig shoved the final cymbal into the storage closet and offered him a hand up. “Well, where do your parents pick you up?”

Tweek fiddled with his thumbs. “They don’t. I walk home.”

“Then we’d better get started.”

The two made their gradual trudge down the hill from their campus, careful to prevent ‘Jessabelle’ from dragging in the mud. When they reached the crosswalk, they received several questioning stares from many of the other preteens who, with their one-track minds, perceived jazz band to be some sort of cult. One brave little girl had the courage to step forward and ask them about the mysterious case.

“What is  _ that? _ ”

Tweek looked away, seemingly unwilling to discuss, so Craig filled in. “Do you happen to know Eric Cartman?”

“Yeah. He’s in my brother’s class.”

“He died in class today,” he said bluntly. “This is his casket.”

As Eric followed them downhill on his tricycle that he still refused to abandon, the remainder of the students shot him an expression only described as that of having just seen a ghost. In that moment, Craig knew that he’d be left alone for at least a little while.

After thirty minutes down the bike path that Tweek swore to be a ‘shortcut,’ the breeze picked up and formed a vicious wind. Light snow dusted the brown leather case. Tweek reached above with his free hand in an attempt to snatch some of the airborne flakes. It adorned the tips of his hair and the yarn of Craig’s chullo like a sprinkling of powdered sugar.

“Dude.”

Tweek halted, if only for a moment. “Yeah?”

“How in God’s name aren’t you cold?”

Tweek kicked a fresh layer of frost away from the concrete. “ Do you notice how much I shake? That’s, like, a thousand jumping jacks each day,” he explained, “and I have coffee to thank in part, too. Besides, even without all that stuff my body just tends to retain a lot of heat. Just feel my hands.”

Craig felt all the blood in his body rush to his face. “ _ What? _ ” he choked out.

“I’m not asking you to hold my hand! Just high-five me or some bro shit like that.”

The drummer wasn’t quite convinced. “ _ Are  _ we bros?” _ Ugh. Too douchey, try again. _ “Are we  _ friends? _ ”

“I mean, I think you’re pretty cool. And you’ve saved my ass on multiple occasions. Do you want to be  _ my _ friend?” He was stammering heavily.

“I think so.”

“Then high-five me, dude, Jesus. We’ll be snowed in if you keep stalling like this, and then I’ll die and you’ll be the one to blame.”

It was little more than a lingering slap, but the exchange was strangely momentous to Craig. With the impact of the other’s warm, oddly dainty hands, he was suddenly compelled to learn all he could about the elusive new kid.

He shook the feeling off. “Let’s move it.”

By the time they made it to their own neighborhood, the early onset of winter made it so that the sky, now entirely cleared, was already tinged an evening pink. They placed Tweek’s instrument in his front yard, and sat on the steps of the front porch. 

“We made it.”

Tweek smiled. “Sure did. Do you need a ride home? My family is more than a little weird, but I think they’d be willing to drive you.”

“Nah. I live just a few blocks from here.”

“Really?”

“Really. It wasn’t a hassle at all.” Craig took a quick glance at his watch. “But I really  _ should  _ be getting home.”

“Later, Mr. Drummer.”

“Bye, Tweek,” he called back as he rose from his position on the stairs. “Oh,” he added as he turned the corner, “and don’t forget that tomorrow is Fedora Friday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i relate to craig because i, too, realized i was a useless homosexual in middle school
> 
> talk to me abt my au on my tumblr at nibethepa :D


	3. Suddenly It's Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after way too long i announce the third chapter of fedora fridays!  
> i'm so so sorry for the lack of update. i had a lot of crazy emotional shit going on in the sidelines but it's all better now and I can officially update regularly!  
> i hope y'all enjoy and i'm gonna do my best to get another update by next week :D

     “What the hell is that?”

     Tweek had come into the room lugging his instrument behind him in a leisurely fashion. His first steps onto the greasy brown carpet were marked by an incredible thud as the leather case toppled over, followed by a piercing shriek and various rushed attempts to ensure the condition of the instrument. He took a moment to breathe, and when the vermillion tinting his cheeks faded to its typical pallor, he acknowledged the presence of his hovering friend with the aforementioned question.

     Craig, who had just stormed in to escape the frigid morning air, was struck with a shit-eating grin in response to Tweek’s interrogation. “It’s a fedora, obviously,” he chided in his typical nasal tone. “I warned you about our time-honored tradition known as Fedora Friday. You came unprepared.” As he lectured the new student, the remainder of their classmates came pouring in, fedoras adorning the tops of their adolescent heads like crowns. They chatted idly, surrounding Tweek and Craig in a mingling sea. “Really, Tweek,” Craig continued, despite the nervous look his friend shot the busybodies, “I expected better from you.”

     “Is this an apocalypse or something? Are the hats brainwashing you guys? Don’t answer that. Don’t touch me,  _ gah! _ ”

     Clyde approached him from behind and covered the entirety of Tweek’s tangled, straw-like hair beneath a spare hat. Tweek himself froze, prior to reassessing his position. “Huh. I don’t  _ feel _ like a part of a hivemind.”

     Craig reached a comforting arm around Tweek’s back. “Exactly, dude. Either way, that’s not really what I was concerned about.” He felt sweat pooling beneath his arms, and inwardly cursed puberty despite questioning the source of his sudden anxiety. “I was— uh, that is to say, I— I wanted to ask if you wanted to sit with us for today. Token, Jimmy, Clyde, and me, I mean. We don’t really ever practice on Fridays, Ackman just makes us watch jazz history films. You could also eat with us at lunch, if you wanted to.” He attempted to shove a fist in the pocket of his jeans and missed by about four inches.

     “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

     Craig let out a breath that he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding, and went to take a seat. As the teens practically collapsed into their chairs, Tweek’s hand flimsily brushed against the outside of his elbow. Craig initially thought nothing of it, but of course Eric Cartman, the local asshole, just had to go and make a big fucking deal out of it.

     “Guys,” he tittered, “don’t look now, but Tweek just touched Craig’s  _ wenis. _ ”

     Tweek rose in his seat, back straight like a soldier as if an electrical current had shot through his frail body. “I did  _ what now _ ?” 

     Cartman nodded decisively. “Yep. And everyone around here knows what happens if a guy touches another guy’s wenis.”

     “What happens? It’s too suspenseful, I can’t take it!”

     “It makes you…  _ gay, _ ” he stage-whispered.

     Tweek’s eyebrows furrowed, and it suddenly occurred to Craig that of course, having only known him for a few days, he had never seen Tweek angry before, but his cartoonish scowl and the daggers in his eyes spoke volumes. He preserved a bitter silence before Kyle Broflovski spoke up.

     “No it doesn't, fatass. Stan and I touch wenises by accident all the time and that doesn’t make  _ us _ gay.”

     “Try to look me in the eye and say that,  _ homo. _ ”

     As the two bickered like the rivals they were, Craig leaned over and whispered to his friend. “Don’t think anything of it. It’s just some stupid tradition at this damn school and they make fun of you for, like, a couple weeks. The lower you lay, the better.”

     Butters, the third chair trumpet, attempted to comfort Tweek. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Tweek. Why, I touch other guys’ wenises by accident all the time in gym class and it doesn’t make me gay!”

     Cartman grinned like he’d stuffed his entire mouth with a cheesecake. “Actually, Butters, it totally does make you gay.”

     Butters frowned and returned to his seat. 

     As the classroom erupted into laughter and petty conversation, Craig watched Tweek do what he could only assume was holding himself back. Grinding his teeth together and balling his hands into fists, the blonde did his best to take deep breaths. Craig’s face grew a deeper shade of crimson.

     It was Tweek who snapped, taking Craig away from his own individual musings. The shorter boy stared Cartman down like he was nothing. “Why does it matter?”

     Cartman swallowed. “What.”

     “Why does it matter whether a student is gay or not?”

     “Well—”

     “You know,  _ Eric, _ if I just so happened to actually be gay, I could actually report you to the principal. Our school has a strict policy forbidding discrimination on the basis of race, gender, and orientation. If I took this up with the higher-ups, I could, hypothetically, destroy any chances of you having a future.”

     All of a sudden, Cartman appeared smaller than he really was. “W-what I meant to say was… you’re welcome to touch any kind of wenis you please.”

     “That’s what I thought,” Tweek confirmed, taking his seat triumphantly, though the other boy could trace the shaking of his hands.

     About halfway through the film, his voice cutting through the dark, Craig leaned over. “You know, doing that probably got you in more hot water than just rolling with it would have done.”

     “I put him in his place,” Tweek stated simply, his mouth raised in a satisfied smile. “I wouldn’t change that for the world.” In the faint light of the film, Craig noticed the slight dimples at the corners of his cheeks. They stressed him out in a way he couldn’t explain. 

     At the end of class, following his final anti-drug speech, Ackman stood in the center of the room. “I’d like to take a moment to commemorate the accomplishments of one of our students. Tweek, if you’d be so kind as to step forward.”

     Eyes wide, Tweek moved cautiously toward his conductor. “Jesus, am I in trouble?”

     “No, Tweek. I’m letting you and the class know that starting next week, you will be an official member of the South Park Middle School Jazz Band.”

     The saxophonist’s expression could only be described as beaming. “Seriously? Oh my God, that’s so great. Thank you! Hell yes!”

     “Language,” the conductor reminded.

     “Heck yes?”

     Craig felt his shoulders relax from tension he didn’t even realize was there. “Nice going, new kid,” he congratulated, and the rest of the class fell into casual conversation until the bell rang. 

~

     “Thanks for letting me sit with you at lunch today,” Tweek began.

     Craig hoisted his half of Jessabelle’s case into the air as they made their way out the door. “It’s not a problem, really. Everyone really liked you. Except Clyde.”

     “What?! Why?”

     The taller boy barked out a laugh. “No reason! He just thinks I’m replacing him, or something. Even then, they  _ all  _ have mad respect for you after how you spoke to Cartman.”

     When they made their way across the crosswalk, Tweek came to a halt and let his eyes fall downward. “Yeah. He deserved it.”

     “...Tweek?”

     “Hm?”

     Blood rushed to his cheeks and it frustrated him to no end. “Never mind.”

     They walked in silence for about five minutes, except apparently, they somehow took a wrong turn. They emerged from the bike path to see nothing but a foggy, empty field.

     “Great. We’re fucking lost,” Craig noted intelligently.

     “Oh, God. This is really bad.” Tweek ran his fingers through his own hair and tugged sporadically. “We’re going to either get eaten by coyotes or freeze to death. I pick getting eaten. I think it’s quicker. Jesus, I can’t do this!” He tried to break off into a sprint, before Craig caught him by the shoulders.

     “You can’t run off. You have to take care of Jessabelle,” Craig deadpanned.

     Tweek frowned and let out a long sigh. “That’s true, I guess.”

     The drummer squinted in a weak attempt to see past the fog. “I can’t see anything. We could easily just wait here until those bitchass ground clouds or whatever clear.” In a moment of foolishness he had actually forgotten the word for fog.

     “Fuck you, ground clouds!” Tweek chimed in.

     The two kids stared at each other incredulously before breaking out into almost musical laughter. It wasn’t really funny, but when you’re thirteen and hysterical anything can be.

     Since Tweek was in the gifted and talented program and Craig wasn’t, they couldn’t really work on any homework together. Instead, both of them settled for talking about whatever came to mind as they watched the grass sway with every slight gust of wind.

     “I heard you playing yesterday,” Craig admitted, followed by a lie. “I was gonna go to the bathroom but I walked right by the band room and got distracted.”

     “God, you heard that?” Tweek buried his face in his hands. “I was awful.”

     “No, you weren’t.”

     “But I kept shaking and messing up the runs and—”

     “Look,” Craig said, removing his fedora with the hope that he could be taken seriously. “I used to be exactly the same way you are. In fact, no, I still am. You’re too hard on yourself, Tweek, but you’ve got this raw talent. It’s amazing. I never thought that the bari sax could sound so…” He gulped. “Beautiful.”

     Tweek looked up at him in wonder, and all it did was make Craig want to vomit and he had no idea why. “You really think so?”

     Craig swallowed his pride. “Definitely. No homo, though.”

     “Yeah.” Shifting against the dry brush, Tweek cleared his throat. “I only met you a few days ago and already I feel like… like I can trust you.”

     Craig’s mouth suddenly felt immensely dry. “Yeah?”

     “Uh huh. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You’re kind of a saint in a school full of assholes.”

     Craig flushes at the the compliment and he doesn’t know why. “No I’m not. You totally handled the situation today all by yourself.”

     “Well, I have to be bigger than them when it comes to stuff like that.”

     “And you were! God, you handled it better than I ever could and I’m supposed to be the cool one.” Suddenly feeling shy, Craig shifted his focus to his knees.

     “Craig?”

     “Hm?”

     Tweek fiddled with his hair, which Craig now realized must be a nervous habit. “What if they’re right?”

     “It can’t have gotten to you that much.”

     He pushed the drummer onto his side, though not unkindly. “No, dork. What I mean is… Jesus fucking Christ… what if I am gay, you know?”

     Craig wasn’t sure whether he was present in that moment. “Uh… no, I don’t know?” The wind blew straight through to his bones.

     “It’s like. I keep seeing girls, man, and at my old school people would be all over them, and I’m just like, ‘What exactly is the big deal here?’ Yeah, girls are nice, but I’ve just never had a crush on one of them or anything.”

     “Well, do you like boys?”

     Tweek thought for a moment. “I like you.” His index finger was mere millimeters away from Craig’s.

     It took a moment for Craig to regain his composure, choking on air to the point that he was absolutely sure he could die there on the spot. “No, idiot,” he got out between coughs, “do you have a crush?”

     He could have sworn he saw Tweek’s smile fade for a fragment of a second. “I guess I used to. He was the pianist in my old school’s jazz band. Bradley.”

     “Well, why didn’t you date him?”

     “His parents were those kinds of religious freaks who were super homophobic. He was very obviously gay, but repressing. A lot. Even then, I don’t even think he liked me. I’m not that great.”

     Craig’s hand brushed over Tweek’s and he recoiled just quickly enough for the latter not to notice. “No dude,” he sputtered, “you’re super great. Don’t talk shit about yourself like that.”

     As the wind picked up, the gentle sound of grass intermingling grew stronger.

     “The fog is clearing up,” Tweek pointed out.

     “Sure is,” was all the other boy said, and they got up to walk again. Stark’s Pond was visible in the distance.

~

     At Tweek’s doorstep, they said their goodbyes for the week. An ache persisted heavy in Craig’s heart, something he couldn’t quite place. Upon arriving home, he flipped open his computer and clicked on Google Chrome, pulse quickening.

 

6:00 p.m. GOOGLE SEARCH: AM I DYING

 

6:30 p.m. GOOGLE SEARCH: SYMPTOMS OF A HEART ATTACK

 

7:00 p.m. GOOGLE SEARCH: WHY DOES MY HEART HURT

 

8:00 p.m. GOOGLE SEARCH: SYMPTOMS OF A CRUSH

 

9:00 p.m. GOOGLE SEARCH [INCOGNITO]: AM I GAY

 

     He slammed the laptop shut. That was enough browsing for one night.


	4. I'm Beginning to See The Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clyde comes over for an unwarranted visit and makes a discovery.

     In Craig’s eyes, Saturdays were heaven. In the breath of the word “Saturday” was the immediate implication of no school, no church, no family shit, no worries. It was him and Stripe against the world.

  
     In his head, he was already devising how to savor the time he had. Popping a couple S’mores-flavored Pop-Tarts in the toaster would be satisfactory-- a breakfast of kings, really. In the corner, his old gaming system collected dust, the top decorated by equally filthy anime figurines belonging to his sister. Hypothetically speaking he could easily dig into the closet in order to find the necessities for playing Guitar Hero, but all the songs in his copy were getting old. He settled for watching the clock as his shitty fake pastries cooked.

  
     His breakfast emerged within a minute or two, slightly burnt at the edges (just how he liked them). Taking a seat on their 30 dollar Goodwill couch, Craig flipped on the television and switched over to Red Racer. A rerun. Biting aggressively into the Pop-Tart, he felt stray crumbs fall into his lap. Stripe let out a high pitched sound of distress in the corner.

  
     “You can’t have any,” Craig retorted, stuffing his face with the rest of the food.

  
     Time was going by far too slowly for his tastes, so Craig resorted to practice. Since no one was home, there wouldn’t be anyone screaming at him to “shut the fuck up, some of us are trying to sleep.” Any day now a competition would be announced, and he didn’t want to be the one loser who messed up his fills and by extension the whole band.

  
     Not that it really mattered anyway.  
     He began with a 5/4 beat, gentle and swinging, counting to himself under his breath.  _One, two, three, four, five._  Having struggled with this since day one, he’d taken it upon himself to practice the odd time signature religiously. With a simple fill he shifted to a funk beat. Then bossa nova. Then something akin to “Leave it All to Me” from iCarly.

  
     A knock.

  
      _Who the fuck could that be?_

  
     Of course, it was Clyde, standing on the front porch freezing his ass off with a shiteating grin. His arms, bare and pale, were left uncovered by the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

  
     “Hey, was that the iCarly theme in there?”

  
     Craig grimaced. “No. Fuck you. Why are you here?”

  
     Pushing his way past his not-so-gracious host, Clyde began his typical monologue. “Well, my dad was acting like an idiot. ‘Clean up your room’ this, ‘do your homework’ that, that kind of ordeal. Typical dad shit. I was like, ‘Whatever, dad,’ and then I lept out of my window. I hit the ground and was like, ‘woah, I think I broke something,’ but then turns out it was just a nasty bruise and i was fine, but it was cold as hell out there and I needed somewhere to go, cause I kinda forgot a jacket. So here I am. Do you have any snacks?”

  
     “I just finished the last of the food in the house. You could eat Stripe’s treats.”

  
     Completely ignoring him, Clyde made his way up the stairs. “Are your parents home?”

  
     “No. I always wake up late on Saturday so they and my sister go on little family trips without me.”

  
     His unauthorized guest came to a halt. “That’s, like, really sad, dude.”

  
     “Eh. It’s routine.”

  
     “Did you cry the first time it happened?”

  
     “No.”

  
     “I always cry whenever something sad happens.”

  
     Craig sighed. “I know, dude. I’ve seen it.”

  
     A little more casual conversation led, eventually, to the both of them laying on the floor parallel to one another, staring at the ceiling. Clyde’s face was scrunched up in an unreadable expression, which Craig had come to know as his “thinking face.”

  
     Clyde whispered, “You do this all the time? Just... stare off into space?”

  
     “Yes.”

  
     “Every Saturday?”

  
     “For at least an hour.”

  
     Clyde was silent for a while before forcing out a meager, “Why?”

  
     Rolling over to face him, Craig gave an exasperated grunt. “Because I need some time to mellow out. It’s like meditation. I need to just kind of expel the bad shit, and breathe in completely empty for a little while so I’m ready for a whole other week of bad shit.”

  
     “I’ve known you since third grade, and I had no idea you needed this.”

  
     “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” Craig deadpanned, and after a moment of quiet the two boys broke out into a ridiculous amount of laughter.

  
     “Okay, Mr. Serious,” Clyde countered between breaths, “tell me something I don’t know, then.”

  
     Craig cocked an eyebrow. “What do you want to know?”

  
     “Like, what is with your obsession with the new kid?”

  
     Abruptly, the drummer sat up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not obsessed with him.”

  
     “I saw you listening in on him in the band room the other day when I was going to the cafeteria. You looked so fucking creepy, dude. You’re totally obsessed with him.”

  
     With even breaths, Craig retained his composure. “I was waiting to see when he was done so I could talk to Ackman. Maybe you’re obsessed with him.”

  
     As though he was some sort of junior detective, Clyde pointed an accusing finger at him. “This is an interrogation. Don’t tell me how I feel.”

  
     “That is literally exactly what you’re doing to me, hypocrite.”

  
     “Hey! I’m not a hippo-whatever. I'm the interrogator. I’m just asking how you feel. With a threatening voice.”

  
     Grabbing a fistful of the fleece rug on the floor, Craig swallowed. “Great. I’m not obsessed with Tweek. Can I go now?”

  
     “Your body language is saying otherwise. What is your ulterior motive, Craig? Are you trying to kill him?”

  
     “I’m not trying to kill him.”

  
     “A-ha! So you’ve admitted there is a motive, and by extension, you are obsessed with him!”

  
     “I did nothing of the sort.”

  
     Once again entirely overlooking his objections, Clyde continued his line of questioning. “So if you don’t want to kill him, what is it? Does he have a lot of money? Is he an undercover celebrity? Is he an alien?”

  
     “Fuck, Clyde, it is literally none of those things. I’m just curious about him. You of all people know how intriguing new kids can be.”

  
     “Do you like him?”

  
     Sputtering, Craig realized all hope of preserving that beautiful composure was lost. “N-no.”

  
     “Oh my God, you totally do!”

  
     Defensively, the drummer crossed his arms and headed over to his seat at the kit. “I’ve only known him for like a week. That wouldn’t make sense.” He lifted the sticks and began a waltz beat (One, two, three, one, two, three) in an effort to calm down, to regain that stability he was known for. _One, two, three. One, two, three._

  
     “Except it does, because you walk him home every day and you look away when he looks at you and you’ve been trying so desperately to be his friend.”

  
_One, two, three._ “I’m not even gay.”

  
     “I mean, you did touch wenises the other day.”

  
     “Oh my fucking God. Clyde, I know you’re an idiot, but that’s not how being gay works.” He started to swing it, loosening the ride hits and his grasp on the sticks. _One, and two, and three, and one, and two, and three, and._

  
     “How do you know?” Clyde retorted in nasal mockery. “Did you Google it?”

  
     “No,” he denied, but the beat was lost. He added a four, then a five, then a seven, and back down to two, and entirely lost the rhythm. Whether it was supposed to be funk, or swing, or Latin fusion, it felt like garbage. He went through one last mess of a fill, and ceased from doing any more damage to the art of music than he’d already done. In the pit of his stomach, a knot tied itself tight and durable.

  
     “You looked it up,” Clyde mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. “I'm gonna ignore how hilarious that is and get real with you: why didn’t you tell any of us that you were going through that kind of thing?”

  
     “I’m not gay,” the drummer repeated quietly, desperately. His throat was devoid of all moisture, and his windpipe seemed to shrink. Despite it not really mattering in the slightest, the generic teenager in him allowed pure embarrassment to consume his entire being.

  
     “Dude, it doesn’t matter to me. I just think that we should be able to talk about these things. That’s what friends are for. Just remember not to give all your attention to him. Bros before hoes, you know?” Wrinkling his nose in thought, he added, “Or, I guess it’s bros before bros in this case. I’m sorry, I gotta get used to this.” Taking another pause, Clyde absorbed the humiliation plastered on Craig’s face, which the latter assumed could not be good. “You’re blushing,” the trumpeter concluded. “I knew you had a thing for blondes.”

  
     “Shut the fuck up and get out of my house,” he countered, though without any underlying spite. Mortification, maybe.

  
     “Gotcha,” Clyde acknowledged, already on his way out the door. “Well, it was nice talking with you, best friend. Oh my God, are you the gay best friend? No, you’re not really sassy.”

  
     Craig let out an infuriated groan. “First of all, that's an offensive and ignorant stereotype based off the fetishization of gay people. Second of all, I'm _not_ gay. Third of all, get out.”

  
     “Okay, maybe a little sassy.” He stayed put in the doorway and stamped his foot down dramatically. “I’m not leaving until you say the magic word.”

  
     “Get out, please?”

  
     “Nope.”

  
     It was now or never-- Craig had to submit. “Get out, Clyde, my coolest and best-est friend in the entire multiverse.”

     A grin spread across the other boy’s features. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  
     How ridiculous was it, to have a crush after a little over a week? In the corners of his mind, Craig was almost positive that couldn’t be what was going on. Time and time again he had to reassure himself that it was merely the allure of a new student-- the others sniffing out whether they were friend or foe.

  
     In his life, there were no grey areas, and yet the hyper mess that stormed in from the rain one afternoon created an entire new conflict. Craig Tucker was not an anxious person. He was sure of himself (for an eighth grader), composed (for an eighth grader), and confident that he was in the right (like any eighth grader would be). Yet there he was, gazing blankly at the drum kit and entirely unsure of himself, experiencing heart palpitations and a surge of blood rushing to his cheeks. And, frankly, it sucked.

  
     By the laws of his clique, Craig Tucker was untouchable. He was a drummer; cold, calculated precision in his personality could be traced in the strike of a hi hat. The South Park Middle School jazz band was the place to be when you were at the top of the ranks— as far as band geeks went, anyway. He was elusive. He was mysterious. The general air about him told everyone to respect him, potentially even adore him, but to stay the fuck out of his way.

  
     But when that damn twitchy blonde stormed through their band room door begging for a second try at jazz band auditions, something in him ignited. Suddenly, he was no longer the mystery.

  
     And that frustrated him more than he would ever admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still trying to get on a regular update schedule. school is kicking my ass. sorry y'all ):
> 
> uhh anyway remember being gay in middle school fellas? cause i sure do. and it sucked
> 
> craig is totally awkward around and a little annoyed by clyde in this chapter but i swear in his heart he cares abt him a whole lot and they're besties i don't make the rules
> 
> uhhh back to jazz shenanigans in the next chapter! i do a lot of time skips since i wanna make this short so idk when the time will be yet but there's a competition coming up ;)


	5. Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The squad spends some quality time together, and Craig and Tweek are nerds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for description of an injury and blood!
> 
> this update is long AF so ummmm oops i got hella into it
> 
> gonna try to update again by next sunday, but im going to be very busy! midterms and shit ya know ;-;
> 
> uh anyway craig is gay that's all gn
> 
> tweek also misspells a bit when typing due to his jittery-ness. if anyone's struggling to read it lmk and i can tone it down! 
> 
> no prereading today fellas my computer's about to run out of battery so we die like men

    The rest of September was marked by unmistakable tension amongst the band. Ackman had been holding off on announcing the date of their first competition, and as a result, everyone was on edge. Fights had broken out over who got to solo that day. Bickering erupted over which song to play. With the class spinning out of control, it seemed to Craig that Ackman was just sitting back and watching the class erupt.

 

    One lunch about halfway through the month, Tweek grabbed a fistful of grass and spat, “I can’t take it anymore!”

 

    Token, having been fiddling around on GarageBand for about half an hour, broke focus. “What are you talking about?”

 

    “I mean, what’s the point,” the saxophonist demanded, “if all we’re doing is practicing for the hell of it? Unlike the rest of you people, I’m in  _ intermediate _ band. I don’t even get to compete there, which means the stakes are that much higher in jazz band! I want to prove myself, damn it!” He froze. “Oh my God. What if there  _ is  _ a competition, and I don’t get to go because I’m so much worse than all of you?”

 

    Clyde, from the safety of their favorite tree, let his shoulders slump. “I’m with Tweek. I don’t like that Ackman is holding the information back. It’s like he’s dragging us along, letting us get more and more freaked out. Wendy almost killed Stan the other day.”

 

    “I think that’s more because they’re having relationship problems,” Craig retaliated, “but I’m with you on the rest of it. The director is being a dick. Just tell us when to be ready for a competition, and we’ll be ready when the date comes. He’s totally underestimating us.”

 

    Token rolled his eyes. “You people are like conspiracy theorists. What if he just hasn’t coordinated a competition yet? Or, maybe, just maybe, nobody wants a bunch of idiot middle schoolers to come compete at their venue.”

 

    Jimmy’s face fell, and he struggled to get the words out. “Blasphemy! That is not the jazz band way, Token!” 

 

    “Yeah,” Clyde added, pumping his fist in the air dramatically, “we’re  _ super talented _ idiot middle schoolers!”

 

    Burying his face in his hands, Craig sighed. This was going to be a long semester.

 

    The next day, though, as Ackman tapped the music stand with his pencil there was a glint in his eye that Craig could pick up from the back of the room. Though not smiling, there was a sense of pride around him. Characteristically, he cleared his throat, indicating a request for silence.

 

    “As you all know, part of jazz band is the performance aspect. We have not yet held a ‘concert’ so to speak, and our assemblies in the past year have had… less than stellar attendance. Recently, though, I have worked out something for all of y’all.”

 

    Collectively, the class had been leaning forward, and the last sentence was followed by a choral gasp.

 

    “So next weekend, we are going to be playing in the mall!”

 

_ There goes literally any interest I had in this event ever, _ Craig thought. Silence hung thick in the air.

 

    “I thought you’d all be excited,” the director confessed.

 

    “Well, Mr. Ackman,” Cartman explained slowly, “I’m sure we’re all grateful for the opportunity, but-- how do I put this delicately-- no one fucking goes to malls anymore.”

 

    Bebe Stevens, pausing in the middle of assembling her tenor sax, interjected, “Yeah. We all use Amazon now.”

 

    “You’re still coming. All of you. Unless you want to have a major markdown on your grade.” The band groaned and nodded, probably all silently making notes to text their parents that plans needed to change.

 

    Deciding not to dwell too much on what to say, Craig remained quiet, but sat back and witnessed diligently as Tweek took a stand. “Oh my God, can you please just tell us when the next competition is so we can stop feeling so freaked out and move on with our lives?”

 

    The director frowned, and turned away from the expectant faces of the band. “I know this school was known for its success in jazz competitions, but that was kind of ruined by last year’s eighth graders, bless their hearts. I’ve only got one host to agree so far. That’s the problem.”

 

    Tweek groaned in frustration. “What is the big deal?! Just tell us the date!”

 

    “The big deal, Mr. Tweak, is that they’re only allowing the best of the band to go. It’s a high-school and college level elites competition. So yeah, hypothetically, it’s a great opportunity for the ten people who do get to go, but there’s thirty-five smiling faces in here and I do not want to deny any of you the opportunity.”

 

    “Why not just hold auditions?”

 

    All the attention in the room snapped to Craig, who maintained a casual demeanor despite his entire body starting to sweat. 

 

    The director leaned forward. “Elaborate, please.”

 

    “Most of us had to audition to get into jazz band. There weren’t any hard feelings. Most of us who continue music will get plenty of chances like this in high school anyway. It’s still a competition and looks great for our school, potentially even rebuilding our former reputation. There’s nothing to lose.”

 

    Following a brief quiet, Mr. Ackman slowly nodded. “I’ll call Irene and tell her we’re confirming. I guess… auditions start in three weeks? Does that sound good to everybody?”

 

    So much for solving tension.

 

    ~

 

    That Friday, after their last period got out, Tweek hung out with Craig and Those Guys by the stream in the back of the school. 

    After Craig made the invite at the end of lunch, Clyde poked fun about the implications of the scenario in a gentle whisper. “You think a guy’s cute, so you invite him to the back of the school? Dude. That’s creepy as shit.”

 

    “I don’t think he’s ‘cute’. Even if I was gay, that doesn’t mean I have to find him ‘cute.’” He utilized air quotes to clarify his point. “He’s kind of a mess.”

 

    “Well, I wasn’t about to tell you that you find that ‘mess’ completely and utterly sexy, since you’d probably just ignore me.”

 

    Craig stumbled on his way down the steps toward his math classroom before taking a deep breath. “You’re right. Here’s me, ignoring you.”

 

    But fast forward to after school once more, and things were oddly tranquil. In the reflection of the emerald green water, Clyde and Jimmy made an assortment of strange faces in an effort to crack each other up. Token was sprawled out like a cat in the afternoon sun, ardently filling out his English homework. Barefoot, Tweek sat at the edge of the land and allowed the water to reach up to his ankles, kicking at the crawdads that threatened to pinch him. Craig approached slowly, pondering, trying to reach into the depths of his brain for any trace of how to start an actual human conversation.

 

    “So, what do you think about the competition?” he asked, taking a seat nearby.

 

    “Don’t even get me started.”

 

    “Are you gonna try out, at least?”

 

    Tweek grimaced. “Hell no, man! I know you were trying to be all motivational the other day by telling me I was talented and whatever, but I can’t handle the pressure of an audition.”

 

    Craig connected the dots. “Oh. That’s why you asked Ackman for a second chance.”

 

    “Exactly. I flat out broke down crying during my audition cause I read the key signature wrong and played the entire song in B major rather than B minor. Once I got going, I couldn’t stop.”

 

    “I thought you said you were the best sight-reader at your old school.”

 

    “I was!” Tweek countered. “That’s why I lingered on the mistake so long, dude. I couldn’t stop thinking about how uncharacteristic it was of me to fuck up like that. I was angry with myself.”

 

    Craig thought back to when he started playing percussion-- particularly the time in which he came home to his dad one evening crying because he wasn’t getting better, wasn’t perfect, didn’t get to see his friends anymore because he was too busy practicing all the fucking time. “I understand,” he murmured, and that was it. They sat wordlessly for the next few moments, Craig absorbing the sounds of the trickling stream, the wind in the grass, his friends playing recklessly in the distance. 

 

    He snapped out of his thoughts upon hearing Clyde call them over. “We should… probably go see what the hell they’re up to this time.”

 

    Tweek gave a gentle snort that made Craig’s stomach do a backflip. “Yeah.”

 

    In between Clyde’s stubby little fingers was a sturdy rope, tied carefully to a thick tree limb overhead. He wiggled it around enthusiastically, chanting “I found a rope swing! I found a rope swing!” in a sing-song voice. 

 

    Token pointed an accusing finger. “Dude, that’s rude. Jimmy can’t use the swing. You need to be more considerate.”

 

    “Actually,” Jimmy called from across the creek, “Clyde carried me a, carried, carried me across.”

 

    Disbelieving, Token’s eyes widened, but he played it off. “Dude, that’s amazing. All this time I thought you were just fat.”

 

    Clyde gasped in mock offense. “I am  _ not _ fat,” he shouted, elbowing Token at full speed. Turning to Tweek and Craig, he offered, “You guys can try, if you want. Just don’t fall in.” 

 

    Craig peered at the saxophonist to his right, and quickly noticed the flash of fear in his eye.

 

    “Let’s do this, Tweek.”

 

    “Jesus Christ! I’ll pass.” He shivered. “Have you seen  _ Bridge to Terabithia? _ ”

 

    The drummer hesitated. “No. Why?”

 

    Tweek just stared blankly, and eventually conceded. “Be my guest.”

 

    Clyde swung across with ease as he’d presumably done while  _ carrying Jimmy _ \-- Craig still couldn’t fathom that his friend was that strong-- and then tossed the rope back over to Craig. “Hold it by the knots,” the trumpeter shouted despite the lack of distance. “It gives you more support.”

 

    “Fuck you. I know how rope swings work.” He firmly grasped the higher knots, and kicked off the ground with his feet. Airbound, he felt the wind gently muss the bangs he left exposed, and the sides of his chullo flapped against his ears. The air against his face had a slight chill to it, refreshing, new. He let the sole of his shoe barely scrape the surface of the water before tumbling to a landing on the other side. “Jesus.”

 

    Jimmy smirked. “Are you, are you sure you know how rope swings work?”

 

    Across the way, Tweek eyed Craig anxiously, running fingers through his hair. “Are you okay?!” 

 

    Craig’s heart pounded at the concern in his friend’s voice, and at that moment he kind of just wanted to stop existing because how  _ fucking _ embarrassing. “I’m fine, Tweek,” he managed. 

 

    Token made it to the new side with relative ease and incredibly professional stature. They all complimented him on his flawless entrance and chatted sort of aimlessly. But across the water, Tweek sat alone. Craig’s eyes softened, and of course Clyde noticed.

 

    “Hey, Tweek,” the trumpeter called, “get over here!”

 

    “Agh! Why?”

 

    “Cause someone  _ misses _ you,” he taunted.

 

    Through his teeth, Craig grunted, “Shut the fuck up, Clyde!” Shocked, the two boys who failed to be present at Saturday’s impromptu ‘interrogation’ turned to him with gaping mouths, before dissolving into a fit of giggles.

 

    Tweek sulked. “Ngh, am I really missing out on that much?”

    “Just come over here, man.”

 

    The blonde visibly gulped, as if he was in some sort of old cartoon. “Fine.” Two pale, unmistakably dainty hands found their way around the rope, and he closed his eyes and lifted off. With the unruly hair pushed back by the wind, Craig had a fuller view of the other boy’s face, and caught a quick glimpse of freckles. Grumbling, he pulled his hat over his face. “Okay,” he heard Tweek say, “what were you guys talking about?”

 

    Clyde laughed heartily. “Oh, nothing. Just that Craig has this huge--”

 

    “ _ Guinea pig, _ ” Craig interjected, “I have a huge guinea pig. I think I feed her too much and now she’s fat, so I’m starting her on a diet tonight. And Clyde should  _ respect _ the fact that I have a huge guinea pig, and as my best friend, not tell others about the fact that my pet overweight because that is a sensitive subject, and my information to tell other people.”

 

    Thankfully, Clyde got the memo, and capitulated. “Gotcha, dude. It won’t happen again. Still bros?”

 

    “Still bros. But we should all really get going. Jimmy, don’t you and Clyde need to catch the bus?”

 

    “Oh yeah. The bus might, might leave, might leave without us.”

 

    Clyde raised his hands to the sides of his head in alarm. “Oh shit! You’re right! Let’s go, Jimmy. I have to get home on time so I can finish that stupid essay.”

 

    “I gotta leave, too,” noted Token, “since my Mom’s picking me up on the other side of campus.”

 

    Their gazes all fell to the rope at the same time, hanging over the stream, moving gently with the breeze. Then they all turned to Clyde.

 

    “Oh my God, you guys, just because I  _ can _ carry Jimmy doesn’t mean it’s not physically exhausting.” 

 

    “Yeah,” Jimmy added, “that, and I’m not exactly enthusiastic about Clyde carrying me like I’m a- a prin- a princess. He crushes my ribs.”

 

    “I am a gentle boy! I do nothing of the sort!” He cleared his throat. “So, uh, yeah, we’ll just find the bridge. Tweek, I know the swing was uncomfortable for you so you can come with if you want.”

    Tweek shook his head vehemently. “I wanna do it again,” he confirmed, and his eyes sparkled.

 

    After Clyde and Jimmy had found their way across, Clyde threw the rope across to Tweek, who grabbed it clumsily and got in position: one leg back, wrists straight and tight, his goofy, characteristic look of determination. He quivered with every inhale of breath. Craig couldn’t help but think back to the imagination-riddled games he and his friends played when they were kids-- games of adventure, of spacemen, of superheroes. Tweek looked a bit like some kind of knock-off Marvel hero; only authentic, out of costume, and very real and in front of him and beaming. He got across in a perfect landing, met by cheers from the group. Token followed suit. 

 

    Craig had crossed a stream about a million times over the course of his childhood: by jumping, by wading, by rope, it was all routine like so much of the rest of his life. Still, he felt this liberation in the air, hanging over water. The stakes were incredibly low, and yet, doing stupid, little rebellions like this completely thrilled him. Tweek watched expectantly as he skidded across the water.

 

    And he let out this shrill yell the moment he fell in.

 

    Craig had missed the ground by a little over an inch. It stood just a little higher than the other side, so he hadn’t accounted for the lifting of the feet and instead fell into the embrace of the water. It was freezing cold, the kind of cold that you feel in your bones, the kind that makes you sick. He’d underestimated the depth of the water, too: he just kept falling and falling without the satisfaction of finally hitting the ground, as if he were in a nightmare. But he finally did, and let himself sit there for a while with the dirt and the grime and his soaked clothes, just to have a little time to himself.

 

    When he came up for air, the front of his sweatshirt was brown with algae and sediment, and his hair stuck to his forehead. His elbow stung like hell, and on further examination, he realized he’d scratched it on some kind of rock. His friends all displayed various looks of concern, with Tweek being the most evidently worried.

 

    “Oh my God! I thought you’d never come up! You’re not hurt, are you?” He noticed the elbow. “Oh. Okay. You’re totally hurt. That is, wow, okay, that is so much blood. Holy shit! What if that gets infected?”

 

    “I’m fine, Tweek.”

 

    “He’s right, Craig,” Token noted. “That looks really ugly. You need to get home right away and clean up.”

 

    “I  _ am _ going home.”

    Clyde chimed in. “No, you were going to walk Tweek home like you’ve been doing, which is entirely out of your way. Then you would have bled out and died, and I would have lost my best friend forever.”

 

    Tweek took a stand in the middle of all of them. “Actually, you guys, I can just walk him home this time. I’m good with first aid and stuff like that, so I can help fix him up too.”

 

    They all agreed (including a very reluctant Craig), and said their goodbyes for the week. Then it was just the two of them, alone in a park in the late afternoon. 

 

    After a while, Craig was the first one to speak. “Okay, I know I said I was fine, but my neck is starting to hurt, too. This sucks so much.”

 

    “Dear sweet Jesus, and the blood is staining your sweater! Alright, I’ve never actually been responsible for someone like this before. I kind of want to just run you home, but the running will make you bleed faster, but if we walk then you’ll be in more prolonged pain, and--”

 

    A series of compromises lead to them walking to Craig’s house side by side, with the significantly taller boy leaning on the other’s shoulders for support as he gave him directions. Tweek had insisted upon this as a sort of human headrest to support Craig’s neck pain, but the only thing Craig was really aware of was the fact that his head was currently buried in the neck of his friend who he did not find cute whatsoever, not even a little bit, thank you very much. 

 

    He found it annoying how heated his face was. He’d never had a crush before-- only dated a few girls in the past out of moral obligation, had to let ten more girls down gently because he simply was never interested. With Tweek, he felt like an idiot, unsure of what to do with himself. The other boy kept asking him an assortment of questions regarding his pain, and Craig could do nothing but not along silently and answer where it seemed appropriate, as he was entirely zoning out. He snapped back to reality when he realized Tweek’s bari was nowhere to be found.

 

    “Dude, where’s your instrument?”

 

    “I left her in the locker over the weekend. I’m exhausted from carrying the case all the time. Even with your help, thank you so much by the way, it’s just like 30 pounds of instrument that I’m not prepared to lug home all the time, you know? Besides, I have… oh God, I have  _ so  _ much homework to do. I wasn’t gonna have time to practice at all. Crap, and we have that stupid mall show!”

 

    “You should have told me. I can carry her.”

 

    Tweek left his momentary state of anxiety to look at Craig as if he were the stupidest person in the world. “Craig, no offense, but you’re kind of super scrawny.”

    “Actually, I’m insanely ripped,” he deadpanned, “I just hide it under baggy sweaters so that I don’t distract anyone.”

 

    “Even so, you’re hurt. Are you keeping the wet rag on your elbow?”

 

    “Yes. I don’t think it’s broken but I’m kinda dying of blood loss right now.”

 

    “Really?!”

 

    “No, Tweek.”

 

    Craig’s house was like almost every other one in South Park, and yet he felt almost self-conscious as Tweek took in the sight. It was as though they were all paper cut-outs, living in their cut-out world in their cut-out houses. Having seen Tweek’s house, he quickly realized they were essentially the same, though Craig’s had a lot more cobwebs in the corners and the paint was chipping. 

 

    “I really hope you have hydrogen peroxide and cotton balls. And medical tape. Craig? Craig, I can’t handle walking all the way back to my house!”

 

    “I have all of that, dude. Sorry. Just zoning out.”

 

    “Is the pain that bad? We need to get you inside.”

 

    “I was in more pain when I got my braces, but sure.”

 

    The living room was a mess. Pencils and pens were strewn about the floor, which exhibited a new, uncovered brown stain. The TV was on, though displaying nothing but static. Upon closer examination, the pile of papers on the floor belonged to Tricia.

 

    “You have a sibling?” Tweek asked, still standing in the doorway.

 

    “Yeah. She’s nine. It’s okay to come in, you know.”

 

    “Sorry. I usually check in with parents before I come in, and I guess it’s even more important since I’ve never met your--”

 

    Speak of the devil. Laura Tucker emerged from the kitchen, frowning. “Craig, what happened to you? You smell awful!” Her blonde hair was tied into a loose ponytail, indicating that she’d been cooking.

 

    “Good to see you too, Mom. Fell in the pond. Gonna go do homework. Bye.”

 

    Thomas Tucker followed his wife into the main room, though, and continued their line of questioning. “Who’s the kid by the door?”

 

    “I’m Tweek. His, uh, friend from school.” From the corner of his eye, Craig observed that Tweek was visibly trying to keep his twitching to a minimum. “It’s really nice to meet both of you, Mr. and Mrs. Tucker. I’m sorry this is so short notice, but I really needed help with my math homework and Craig offered to tutor me to prep for the next test.”

 

    Thomas’s eyes narrowed, but he stepped back and brushed them off. “It’s all good. Good luck, boys.”

 

    In a flash, Tweek led Craig past the drum set, upstairs, and into the bathroom. Slamming the door behind them, he commanded, “Okay, take off the rag.”

 

    Beneath the soiled washcloth, his skin was beginning to turn an unsightly shade of purple, and the wound was surrounded by an ugly bruise. “Well,” Craig mumbled, “I’m glad that you carry around a washcloth just in case.”

 

    “Better to be safe than sorry,” the saxophonist quipped as he poured a bit of hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton swab. Tenderly, he lifted Craig’s arm and began dabbing the swollen skin. It let out a sizzling sound, and briefly Craig was almost excited, as science and chemical reactions had always fascinated him. “Normally I wouldn’t do this, since it can kill good bacteria,” Tweek noted, “but you were exposed to the dirt and the air and stuff for a really long time. Who knows what kind of shit is down there in the creek?” He removed the cotton, and guided Craig’s elbow to the sink. “Now I’m just gonna run cold water over it and wash it with a little bit of soap.”

 

      “Cool,” replied Craig, although he wasn’t terribly focused on the icy feeling on his skin. Rather, he was entirely distracted by the feeling of Tweek’s lingering fingers on his arm. Despite the boy’s jittery habit, they were remarkably soft and not at all clammy like Craig’s own, and slightly chubby. From the angle at which he stood, he could make out an array of freckles dusting his friend’s cheeks. 

 

    “I just realized,” Tweek mentioned as he rinsed off the last of the soap and bandaged up the injury, “You need to change out of those clothes. I know I got used to it, but like your mom said, you kind of smell, and besides, that sweater is still damp.”

 

    Suddenly Craig was all too aware of the fabric sticking to his back, and he sighed in defeat. “Wait here. I’ll go change.”

 

    It wasn’t until he actually stepped into his room that he realized how disgusting it was. Stripe’s cage reeked-- he sprayed a little pine air freshener around and prayed to the gods that it would get him through the weekend. The acne prevention products that hadn’t been working somehow ended up open and on the floor, likely a result of him trying frantically to get to school at 7:00. Additionally on the floor were several pairs of dirty underwear.  _ Classy.  _ He went to throw them in the hamper but was stopped by the realization that it was piled up past his limit. Upon further examination deeper into the closet, he realized he had a total of one shirt and one pair of jeans.

 

    The jeans were a skinny fit, but that’s just the way he liked them: he described his own legs as chicken legs, but didn’t really mind if they were displayed to the world. The shirt, however, was official Red Racer merch he’d bought in fifth grade, and he just happened to be an early bloomer. It hugged to his body in a way that made him feel awkward and exposed: it was visible how skinny he really was, and the sleeves clung to his underarms in a way that made him dread any other potential addition to how awful he smelled. Frowning, he tried to flex in the mirror. There were some arm muscles present from years of drumming, but nothing that remained when he relaxed. He wondered if stickbugs were ever insecure with themselves.

 

    Tweek was nowhere to be found in the bathroom, and had instead gone downstairs and was finally located having a chat with Craig’s mom. 

 

    “Oh, Craig, you changed clothes!” his mom exclaimed as he turned the corner. “I haven’t seen that shirt in years. Tweek here was just telling me his dad runs that new cafe in town.”

 

    “I don’t really recommend the coffee, but my mom bakes some of the pastries. We might be able to give you guys a.” He stopped mid-sentence, instead resolving to gape at Craig.

 

    “A discount?” clarified Laura. “That’s wonderful, Tweek. We’ll have to check it out sometime.” She smiled. “I have to get back to cooking, though. Craig, honey, you know I like all of your friends, but this one is definitely a keeper!” With that, she returned to her turf. 

 

    Amongst the noiseless room, Tweek continued ogling Craig, who suddenly felt overly timid. “What?”

 

    “Nothing!” the saxophonist insisted, though it was more like a shout. “I thought you had something on your shirt. It’s fine.” He coughed, and broke eye contact instantly. “You look good.”

 

    He felt his entire face flush. “Thanks. It was the only thing left in my closet, and it’s from elementary school. I can hardly breathe.”

 

    Tweek still wasn’t looking at him, and it pissed him off. “That’s a shame!” the shorter teen yelped. “I need to, I should really get going, I think my parents are wondering where I am.”

 

    “You could just text them and say you’re hanging out at a friend’s place.”

 

    Beet red, Tweek shook his head. “No, because, cause I have so much homework like I talked about, and I need my dad’s computer to get it done, so, I should really just get going.”

 

    “Can I at least have your number so I can text you? If we’re friends, then we should probably have already gotten each other’s phone numbers by now, don’t you think?”

 

    “Um, yeah, sure, hold on.” He impulsively grabbed a pen and napkin from Craig’s coffee table and scribbled down a number. “Thank you so much for having me, tell your mom and dad they’re such good hosts and that I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye. Okay, uh, bye.”

 

    “I’ll text you.”

 

    “Great! Bye!”

 

    The way Tweek slammed the door rang in his head for over an hour. He lay flat in his bed after a long, hot shower, just staring at Tweek’s untouched contact info sitting on his phone. What had he done wrong?

 

    He decided to send him a text, heart in his throat.

 

_ C: hey it’s craig _

 

_     C: i hope this is tweek otherwise that would be extremely awkward _

 

_     C: although you’re a pretty awkward dude anyway _

 

_     T: Hi Craih! _

 

_     T: *craig _

 

_     T: Hey! I’m nnot awkward ): < _

 

_     T: You’re the one who’s actualky pretty awkward for somebody who everybidy thinks is sooo cool. _

 

_     C: touche lmao _

 

    He took a few deep breaths before asking the question that had been bothering him for the past span of time.

 

_     C: anyway wtf was wrong why’d you have to leave _

 

_ Send.  _ Okay, now his heart was slamming in his chest.  _ Crushes are for idiots, _ he thought to himself.  _ Am I an idiot?  _ His phone pinged and he looked at it frantically.

 

_ T: I told you, I had homewotj to do. _

 

_     T: *homework _

 

__ Craig huffed. So much for honesty.

 

_ C: okay but that definitely wasn’t the reason _

 

_     C: i came out of the room and saw you talking to my mom and you were literally fine until like five seconds later _

 

_     C: i just want to know if i did anything wrong. _

 

_     Tweek Tweak is typing… _

 

    Why did he care so fucking much? Craig Tucker was not the kind of person who cared what other people thought of him. He did whatever the fuck he wanted and just went with the flow if there were consequences. Craig Tucker  _ did not care. _

 

_     T: No, Craig, you didn’t do anything wrong. _

 

__ He exhaled a breath of relief he didn’t quite know he’d been holding. He cared so much.

 

_ T: I just. _

 

_     T: Okay, this is goinf to soumd super weird, but it’s totaly platonic, I swear. _

 

__ “What the fuck,” Craig whispered harshly to no one in particular.

 

_ C: ooookay then _

 

_     T: That sounded sarxasttic, do you not want to hear it? I don’t want to make shit awkward _

 

_     T: *sarcastic _

 

_     C: no dude be my guest _

 

_     C: i swear im actually like a relatively chill person and not an emotionally stunted dickbag like i come off. nothing will become awkward i promise _

 

__ He sent the peace sign emoji in an effort to make the statement just a little more lighthearted.

 

_     T: Okay. Well. _

 

_     Tweek Tweak is typing…  _

 

_     T: I guess I was just kind of shocked because you looked kind of hot in that shirt? _

 

__ Oh. OH. The memory replayed instantaneously in Craig’s head, and in that moment the final puzzle piece came into play.

 

_ T: Not that I’m head ovwr heels in love with you, or anuthing. It was just realy well fitted and so diffetent from anything I’d ever seen you in before _

 

_     T: (I’m not gonma bother to correct that, I think you can get the gist of it. Stupid shaky hands, lol) _

 

_     T: But yeah. You just came in looking like a model and I guess I was surprisef because I realized, hey, my boy is kinda good looking! _

 

_     Tweek Tweak is typing…  _

 

__ Craig was this close to hyperventilating.  _ What? What. What! _

 

_     T: Oh my god. I didn’t mean “my boy” in a possessive way. I meant it like ‘friend.’ That’s somethinf we said where I’m fron so. Oops. _

 

_     C: kjkndsfajkj it’s fine my dude. also. thanks? guys should compliment each other more i think, kind of like how girls do. tbh i felt like so exposed in that shirt so at least there’s people appreciating my rock hard abs _

 

_     C: jk im a stick _

 

_     T: Your a hot stick dude. _

 

_     T: 10/10. _

 

_     T: Also do you wanr to see a meme. _

 

_     C: uhhh always  _

 

_ Tweek Tweak sent you an image. _

 

    On his tiny screen, on closer examination, appeared to be a “deep fried” image of a guinea pig, except on his face was the “laughing while crying” emoji and he was doing a little O-K sign with his hands. Craig smiled so wide his cheeks hurt, and he was pretty sure he looked like an absolute buffoon. 

 

_     T: I know you said you had a guinea pig todsy and you seem to care about her a lot so I thought you’d apreciaye this! It’s okay if you don’t, though. I can just not send you memes, cause I know sometimes it’s the wromg time for memes and it can get anoying _

 

_     C: dude i love it thank you so much thats the best _

 

_     C: hold on i have a really good bari sax meme that i handpicked for you the other day but didnt have ur number _

  
__ They continued their exchange of memes until both of them fell peacefully asleep at their screens.

**Author's Note:**

> uppercas.tumblr.com
> 
> i'm a theatre blog for the most part now but i will absolutely talk to y'all about my stupid AU! send me an ask, or a message!


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